


New York World

by toomuchplor



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-09
Updated: 2005-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fire escape, a hot New York summer's night, and two very pretty newsboys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New York World

Jack’s hands are rough and the smell of newspaper ink almost overwhelms the stench of the alley below. David is afraid when Jack takes his palm and cradles it, afraid that a dig is forthcoming about soft schoolboy fingers being dirtied by real work.

But instead there’s only that smile, the sharp one with tart edges, skimming over Jack’s face, making David smile back instinctively. He’s felt this way all day – off-kilter, like looking down in a dream to realize he’d forgotten to get dressed before school – except in this dream, it’s not his outsides, but his insides that are all wrong. Les felt it, too, but in typical little-brother fashion, he’s done a chameleon act and morphed into a miniature Jack, abandoning his former David-imitation with childish brutality.

But Les is sleeping and Sarah is inside filling the space between Dad’s bull-headed optimism and Mother’s anxious smiling. And Jack brought him here, out on the fire escape, and now he’s cupping David’s palm like it’s maybe holding an invisible treasure and Jack’s afraid of spilling it down into the dark night.

Jack has never had thoughts like this, David knows.

“Your family is real nice,” Jack says, somehow infusing as much sincerity as he had when flogging the afternoon edition’s less-than-appealing headlines. And David’s lips curve again, because he still wants to believe Jack. Because Jack’s rough fingers are now slipping up to David’s wrist, taking a pulse if David thought Jack had ever been to a doctor in his life. “Like my family.”

David wants to make an offer, hand over his parents and siblings like they were an overlarge helping of stew, but he doesn’t know how to do it without making Jack angry. So he just smiles and looks down at where Jack’s fingers are tapping a telegram into David’s shirt sleeve.

“Thanks for taking me out today,” David says, too formal and too needy at the same time.

“You got what it takes,” Jack says kindly, like they’re just two guys standing on a fire escape, like Jack isn’t doing this thing with his hand and like David isn’t getting hard from it. “You’re gonna be a first-rate newsie.”

_Just what I always wanted from life,_ David bites back firmly, unsure how he got to this moment. Last month it was saving up for a bicycle to ride around with the boys from school. Now it’s praise from the king of the newsies and a sly thumb insinuating itself into the crook of David’s index finger and thumb.

David looks over nervously and finds Jack watching him with the unblinking calm of a housecat. “What –” he begins, blinking down at their point of contact, but his courage fails him and the Walking Mouth has apparently closed up shop for the day. David’s mouth is empty and all his words have slipped out of his grasp like they were only so much greasy newsprint ink.

But he has to look back at Jack, who is still watching him with dark amusement. “Just between us,” Jack says, and David realizes a few seconds later that this was a complete sentence, because Jack’s head is tilting, his chin tucking in, his body bending from the waist to reach down to David’s mouth.

Jack’s lips are soft and wide and David can feel that Jack probably shaves every day. Then all thoughts drain away and Jack’s exploring fingers abandon David’s wrist and make a grab at David’s suspender strap, hauling him closer and forcing something like a breathy hiccup from between David’s surprised lips. Jack isn’t just pressing his mouth to David’s – he’s licking and almost sucking so that David opens his mouth, just to see if that was what Jack wanted, and then –

When David opens his eyes again, it’s because he feels the tenement’s bricks at his back and he needs to see for himself that Jack has somehow pushed them both out of the lamplight and into the blackness under the fire escape stairs. David can’t see Jack’s expression anymore but he doesn’t get a chance to regret the loss because suddenly Jack’s placing David’s hand on something hot and hard and uncomplicated. This is the summation of all those playful smiles Jack has tossed his way. David doesn’t know what to do, so he just – holds on.

Until Jack’s night-cold touch darts into the space between David’s shirt and his trousers, painting a cool line horizontally just above the waistband before it dips to the button, flicks it aside, and dives down. Down.

“Ah –” A schoolyard word that would get him whupped if Dad heard it, but David’s past caring. “Fuck, yeah.” Jack’s hand is cold at first, but the heat of David’s cock warms it soon enough, and David squeezes his own handful thoughtlessly, only remembering what he’s holding when Jack grunts.

David’s not as practiced at unbuttoning trousers from the other side, but he recruits his left hand and soon enough he has Jack’s cock in hand. Jack has just been holding David, waiting maybe, maybe bored or irritated, except he leans in and David can feel that sweet-sour grin curving against his face. “First one to cross the finish line owes the other ten papes tomorrow,” Jack whispers, and David would laugh except Jack is apparently foregoing the formality of a starting pistol. His hand on David’s cock has suddenly turned into a desperately perfect gradient of pressure and release, a smooth and unrelenting pulse of sensation. David can barely gather his wits enough to return the favour. This is nothing like guilty furtive motions under the covers while Sarah sleeps opposite and Les sprawls into David’s backside.

Rough newsie thumb takes a second to swipe over the wetness on David’s cockhead and David actually groans aloud and his head drops down onto Jack’s shoulder like Sarah’s old broken doll. “Shaddup,” Jack giggles, and cruelly redoubles his effort.

David has no idea what his own fist is doing. He can only feel the beautiful heat of Jack, the weave of Jack’s shirt against his forehead, Jack’s broad shoulder like a statue, except jostling with the vigor of his actions. David’s breath is cutting in and out in uneasy shudders and with a dizzy blink, he looks down at the darkness and knows that he’s going to owe Jack ten papes come tomorrow.

Shameful shiver of heat, David can hear his come hitting Jack’s cupped palm, but he doesn’t care because he feels amazing, and so his head turns and seeks out Jack’s mouth. They kiss for a moment, until David stops shaking, and then Jack’s wet hand covers David’s. “My turn,” Jack says thickly, David still close enough to feel Jack’s tongue dart out to moisten his lips.

David can concentrate now, and he follows Jack’s cues, feeling Jack’s cock, its different breadth and length in his grip, the difference of the angle, the way it flexes as Jack gets closer. “Touch –” Jack begins, his hips rocking into David, toying with his floating balance. “Grab my ass, wouldja?”

So David obediently reaches around and cups and squeezes and Jack makes a sound like a little child and David’s shirt tails are wet in large uneven spots.

They separate and make themselves tidy again, though David can feel the scalding heat of his cheeks and he’s not sure how he’ll manage to launder his own clothes this week. “You should stay the night,” David suggests, wanting to make sure that Jack isn’t going to leave his life in the spectacularly shattering way he entered it a short twelve hours before.

“I got a place,” Jack says, stepping back into the lamplight. He looks mussed and impossibly handsome. David reaches out a hand, unsure if he’s expecting a handshake or an embrace. They both settle for something in between, a slow stroke of fingers and palms that’s somehow almost as intimate as what they just did. “See you at the circulation office tomorrow for the afternoon edition?”

“I don’t welsh on my debts,” David says, trying for bravado and insouciance. He winds up closer to desperation.

“Don’t worry, Davey,” Jack says, walking backwards down the first few steps of the fire escape. “I’ll give ya a chance to win them papes back.”

“Double or nothin’!” David shouts, grinning, because Jack has broken into a run and is now wending his way down the alley like a drunkard in a hurry.

Then Mother calls and Sarah pokes her head out onto the fire escape and David turns his gaze back into the cramped life of his family.

_Just between us_ , David thinks, clambering through the window into the heat and the smell of beet soup. He’s not sure how it happened, but now, abruptly, it is this world that seems strange, and himself strange in it.


End file.
